Hollow Edifices
by Sober Dogs Bore Me
Summary: She was made of that old image, held and contained, like a glass holds water. AU from Season 4.


**Part 1**

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The bus stop was mostly empty; the few that had gotten off with her had already met up with whosoever they had to up with, or gone where ever the fuck they had to go. The kid had been cute, though. She's even doubled back after her parents had started to drag her away and, smiling with that pretty blond hair of hers falling all over her face, proceeded to shake her hand and solemnly say, "Bye, Buffy!" But that had been hours ago, and the grin had long dissipated. It was nearly dark now, and even though she knew she could easily find her way, she rather wanted to do it through the proper channels. This pretty much meant waiting here until whosoever that was supposed to pick her up got that massive stick outa their ass.

She curled her fingers round the cigarette. The dark at least meant that she was no longer getting gawked at, and for that she was relieved. She was leaning back against the seat, her hair tilted upwards. The town was quiet for this time of the night; the few stranglers that she's seen had a scared sort of look on their faces. For a while she'd observed them, and once night began to fall and containing her anger started to hurt more than that ache in her ass, she'd begun following them, her bags like leaden weights in her hands. A little part of her had started to hope that they'd be attacked; especially that old lady who'd stared at her smoke and muttered the whole fucking time. She could just imagine it, a vamp giving grandma a good ole heart attack before she jumped in and dusted its ass. But no matter how much she needed it, the old lady got to her little apartment safely, gave her one last dour look and slammed the door, followed by the clunk of an army of locks. She'd chuckled at the fantasy, before flicking the burnt out stub at the door and lighting another.

But even that had been a while back. Since then, the minutes and hours had been crawling by, like fucking ants beneath her skin. The billboard behind her was dotted with little posters of missing dogs, cats and husbands. Some were torn; some had specks of dried blood that she could still smell. The hellmouth permeated the air. She'd seen it before, the slow and quiet spread of fear contained in little things like these: missing posters, suddenly broken streetlamps that stopped getting fixed, and the bright, portentous shine of new locks. She tried not think about it, and took another deep, long drag. The rush of nicotine was fleeting, too fleeting. The drug barely had time to work upon her system before the slayer took it. She flicked aside the burned out stick, took another, and smiled when she dunked the empty case into the garbage. It was a stupid habit, and she'd probably had like fifty since night, but it would do for now, especially when she was in this state.

She was nervous, this time. She couldn't stop looking into that stupid compact of hers, priming her hair, making sure her makeup was just perfect. She'd chosen a dress imprinted with floral patterns, and while it made her look incredibly juvenile, Buffy knew that she would like it.

It was a bit dirty now, though, and creased as hell and probably stank of cigarettes. That perfect hair of hers was frizzled and dry and really, it was all a freakin waste of quite a lot of money. But she needed this: it was desperate and pathetic and if she discarded that one photograph she had retained, and even if she hadn't set out to emulate it right down the fucking dress she was currently wearing… this image had still always been with her, every time she closed her eyes. It was desperate and pathetic and she knew, she'd always known, but it shaped her, like glass shapes water.

She stopped. The cigarette had burned her hand. Apparently she'd fisted it.

She dropped it and stood up, the cramps in her body protesting. The night air was cool and balmy. It also stank, but she could disregard that for now. She needed to just…just walk for a while. She scratched at her blister, tearing away the burnt skin. Sometimes it was easier and faster start anew.

The streets were lonely, and nothing pinged. She was just walking, a bit faster with every step, and a bit more wearied. It had been days since she'd slept, or had a good meal, or fucked, or done anything that would soothe this – Anger? Hate? Despair? – inside her. It had begun recently, and she had no idea why. Things had been going fine, great even. She'd contacted her recently, and it hadn't even been an apocalypse or anything shitty. Just a little bit of conversation that made her all the more anxious to be perfect when they met. But this had preceded that, and she wasn't stupid, she knew that their little conversation, however brief, however wonderful, had made this all the worse, but she couldn't understand the relation between the two, however much she tried.

It was a quiet town, the third where the hellmouth had sprouted since they'd killed the First. Obviously there was a connection, but thinking about it was almost as palatable a subject as those feelings of hers. That shit was done; they'd obviously fucked up in some manner, and now had to pay for it. Every girl that died left a little pin prick in her heart, and they had a way of adding up. Just last week Kennedy had sent her the last postcard she would ever send: it was of this waterfall somewhere in Africa that looped through a demon dimension. Apparently, it was a 'fucking wild ride'.

She had the postcard in her handbag, a little memento for Willow that she'd promised herself she'd find a way to deliver, regardless of how receptive Willow would be to…well, her. And apparently, as she spotted the witch, she realized Willow didn't plan to disappoint.

Willow's smile was hard. "So, quite the cliché isn't this?"

Buffy's smile was bright, and brittle. After all these years she'd learned how to mimic until the mimicry had become naturalized, but even then there were enough differences in their manner that somebody like Willow, perceptive to the nuances, could hate her for it. "What? The Bus?" she shrugged, her eyes back towards the streets. "Not as fancy as yours ride but it works."

Willow's expression didn't waver. "You don't even understand."

"So explain it to me."

Funny enough, she didn't.

Eventually Willow turned and began to walk towards the lone station wagon parked a couple of yards away. "Come on Faith," she said. "Buffy's waiting."

~*~

They were still in the process of setting up.

The hellmouth had opened less than a week ago. She'd been there when the Mystic had gone into sight-convulsions – her Mystic. She'd also had a hell of a time getting him out of the nest they'd prepared to spray. Apparently a man screaming about virgin hellmouths and the spilled blood of a thousand unbaptized babies attracted the attention of demons in the night. Go figure.

So it had been less than a week and Xander's men were still hammering away, and the Mystics were out in the lawn, with all sorts of funky fruits arranged around them, murmuring their protection spells. She saw a few of them perk up when they registered Willow; it was too dark for them to see her.

The house was large and isolated, like the others, and the stench of the hellmouth was almost a palpable presence in the air. She hated it. Somebody had seen fit to build all these safehouses right next to the mouths, and every single one stank of demons. But Willow moved as if she didn't notice, and Buffy sighed and followed her.

It didn't matter anyway. Her eyes roved, taking in the high walls, and the sharp, acerbic stench of a particularly destructive kind of magic. The main house was situated on a small hill, a grey monolithic affair. But it didn't matter. This wasn't much different from the other hellmouths, and she'd already spent enough time protesting there. So it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was…

And there, she felt her. For a moment her presence was overwhelming, effacing the hellmouth, the magics, andeverything with habitual ease.

She paused, letting Willow move forward, while she took the scene in. They were in a pretty affluent neighborhood, if the manors around them were any indication. And that was just to her sweet poetic justice. The houses were old as hell, some had fucking gargoyles on their roof, and the ridiculous thing just made her want to…

"Faith."

She flinched. She should stop procrastinating. But couldn't. And the compact was out before could tell herself that exposing that to Willow would be a really bad idea. But it's not like the witch could see much better at this time hour, right? Ah, well, that shit was done.

Her hair was fine, and her clothes were… well, they probably wouldn't be looking better for now. Perhaps she should change before she… no, no, she shook her head. This was the exact dress in that picture, and she really should have ordered a duplicate. Stupid. Okay. It was, still, okay. She didn't look too bad or anything –

Willow's voice dripped with derision. "You're delusional. But you were always mad. And don't think I don't know what you're doing with that…getup…"

Yeah, well, you can't win 'em all. "Fuck off, Red."

She could sense the magic beneath the witch's skin, desperately wanting to burst out. The pure hate however had no such restraints. "If you weren't… her, I would kill you so, so bad…"

The door opened and the light spilled out. She stood there, surveying the scene for a moment. "Willow," she said, "Giles is waiting for you."

Willow stood still for a moment, staring right into my eyes, her magic swirling like black fire in hers. Then she acquiesced and gave her a hug before ducking in.

And then she turned towards me. She was, as always, beautiful.

"Faith," Buffy said. "Let's go."

Faith moved as the clock struck twelve. She could already feel the changes beginning, her Buffy-body slowly dissolving into something worse.

When she was besides her, she whispered, "Please, don't call me that."

The house was large, but her scent was concentrated in one of the upper rooms. She could feel it enveloping her.

The door closed behind her, and the presence of the hellmouth vanished. Well, this was new.

And Buffy moved, her brown hair bunched up tight, whistling. And she began to follow the siren song, strands of her hair falling behind her, leaving a trail of gold.


End file.
